


Seeing the Sunlight

by lunaxe



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Agender Character, F/M, Fluff, Happy Ending, Internal Conflict, Internal Monologue, Nonbinary Character, Other, Trans Character, clint is a fluffy puppy who i love to bits, nat is a beautiful anxious person my fave i love them to pieces, she/her at first to they/them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-19 16:13:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15513609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunaxe/pseuds/lunaxe
Summary: There were days like this, she knew. Days where she just wanted to crawl under the covers and hide so no one would look at her and see “Widow,” see “female,” see “girl.” Or “boy,” for that matter. She didn’t want any of it.She just wanted to be unreadable. That’s all she’d ever wanted. Just indistinctly human, without a gender, without all of it. Just without.





	Seeing the Sunlight

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, guys. This one kind of poured out of me at midnight last night, and I rewrote it until it sounded right while listening to "The Village," by Wrabel on repeat. Not gonna lie, cried like a baby. Don't worry, though, not nearly as emotional as the song. I honestly just looked through the agender Natasha tag and I wanted something like this. I fell in love with Clint and Nat so much when writing this, and I see myself in both of them tbh. I tried to write this with italics for thoughts but couldn't really figure out how. Hope you enjoy!

The sun was beaming outside her window. Too bright, Natasha thought, and rolled on her side.

After another hour of this, she finally rolled onto her back and rubbed at her foggy eyes. She glared at the bright yellow light streaking lines across her room, and muttered a string of curses in Russian until she finally gathered the willpower to stretch. And that’s when the pain started. 

Her whole body ached and she was covered in scratches and bruises from head to toe. But even as she felt all these physical sensations through her body, and even as her mind and mouth reacted to them, she couldn’t help but feel that her body wasn’t hers. Like it didn’t belong to her, like she was looking at a foreigners body with strange curves and indents she didn’t remember receiving. Too feminine, she thought as she glanced at her round chest. She crossed her arms over the bust and pushed it in so she wouldn’t have to see it. 

“Fuck,” she grumbled, and it was too masculine. Too harsh and sharp and deep and loud. She flipped onto her stomach on the bed, so she wouldn’t have to see it, see any of it, and she groaned into the pillow. 

There were days like this, she knew. Days where she just wanted to crawl under the covers and hide so no one would look at her and see “Widow,” see “female,” see “girl.” Or “boy,” for that matter. She didn’t want any of it.

She just wanted to be unreadable. That’s all she’d ever wanted. Just indistinctly human, without a gender, without all of it. Just without.

And at that exact moment, as her eyes started to water, Clint walked into the room. She quickly wiped her eyes and turned onto her back, but didn’t bother trying to hide her scowl.

“Wow,” he said wearily, an eyebrow raised. “You really look like shit.” Her mouth curved upwards. Somehow, over the years of them being together, he had understood silently what her moods meant. Up and down, inconsistent, trying to amount to something that she had never felt, (Although being with him came close): serenity. He had always known exactly what to say to make her laugh, but he finally had figured out on days she needed to hide, why she did, without her needing to tell him.

He was carrying a tray filled with eggs, water, soup (why was she even surprised), and aspirin.

She shoved her face into her pillow and another string of Russian expletives pushed their way out of her mouth. Finally, she lifted the pillow from her head and slid under the duvet, arms pushed over her eyes. She could hear Clint rolling his own fondly.

He set down the tray on the wooden table in front of their bed and lay down on the other side of the mattress. She curled herself around him, a blanket and some clothes separating their bodies, separating her from the warmth of him.

Clint knew she got like this sometimes. He knew the signs.

He adjusted his hearing aids and leaned in slightly so she could whisper. 

(So her voice could be more without)

He knew all of this about her, all this brokenness, and still loved her. Even though she’d killed, and hurt, and hated. He still loved her. And somehow, she saw the same in him. They had both been bruised and broken at times in their life, but they had learned kindness and care together. 

And it just so happened that when he was finally okay again and had healed more, he was sent out to kill her. He had made a different call, and at that moment, when she was so fucking tired of being the KGB’s monster, so had she. They had both chosen humanity over monstrosity, albeit at different points in their lives, and they both helped each other become stronger together. They hadn’t looked back since.

“You okay?” he whispered, ending her bout of self-reflection.

She dragged her left hand off her face and laced her fingers through his.

“We just ended the Battle of New York,” she replied, her voice low with the morning. “Aliens and gods stormed our planet, and we fought alongside heroes.”

Her eyes found his. A smile crinkled her lips. “Not sure if I’ll be okay for a while.”

He took their intertwined hands and kissed her fingertips. A tiny flake of dried blood that she hadn’t managed to wash off caught on his lips. She used her free right hand to brush it away, and he used his left to press their fingers to his face.

“You don’t have to be so dramatic, Nat,” he said fondly.

 

Clint was about to leave for work. He frowned, “You sure you don’t want to come with?”

She had a hard time explaining that she didn’t feel okay. Or normal. Or anything, really. She felt as numb as she had the day she completed the Red Room graduation ceremony, and she didn’t even know why.

(Or maybe she did, but she wouldn’t talk about that. She couldn’t)

She finally settled on: “I’m sure. I’m taking a sick day. Have fun in the ducts, idiot.”

He kissed her cheek lightly, then cradled her face in his hands, examining her leaf-green eyes for alarms that had been shut off long ago.

“Okay,” he replied. “I love you.” 

She thought about all the unspoken words, words she felt too afraid to think, but were coursing through her brain anyway. Words about how she felt about her body. How uncomfortable she was with softness, and harshness, too. How she had been wanting to tell him this for years, now, (And maybe she could!) but she didn’t want him to leave (She wouldn’t). How she felt gender was something she was without, and how that both terrified and ostracized her at the same time. How that was the reason she shut down and alienated herself constantly. Why she built up walls she wanted so desperately to tear down, but she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. As long as she kept her mouth shut, he wouldn’t leave.

She returned to reality and thought about the easy way he had said those three words. Like they were fact. She tried to emulate it in the way she responded, but it came out all wrong (tired, broken, but warm). She whispered, “I love you, too,” voice cracking ever-so-slightly.

He smiled and pressed his lips to hers. He pulled back, resting their foreheads together, so they were both breathing the same air. Both of them closed their eyes as she collapsed into him. She was always so strong, he had said, that maybe she needed to be weak sometimes (She disagreed. She thought fate just wanted her to fall). His arms tightened around her.

He pulled her in front of him, looking at her. She prayed he wouldn’t see her eyes watering, arms shaking, but he did anyways, like he always did. He grabbed her right shoulder, tugging her to him with his left hand, and typed what she knew to be a request for time off into his phone in his right.

“Let’s get coffee,” he said like a promise.

She kissed his cheek, a brush of lips on skin.

“Thanks, solnyshko.”

His lips extended into a smile. “Anytime, sweetheart."

 

After she tugged on a green sweater and laced her boots, they headed out. Simple hand in hand turned quickly into his arm around her shoulder with her left hand tangled with his right. She laughed quietly, and his smile reached his eyes. She felt safe, the way she hadn’t when she was younger. The way she hadn’t for most of her life. But somehow, Clint achieved the impossible yet again, and she felt safe with him.

They stepped into a Pete’s for a mocha and a chai tea latte, and, of course, two pastries.

The shop was close to empty. They sat across each other in ragged chairs in comfortable silence, carefully sipping their drinks. She tucked a strand of curly red hair behind her ear and reached for his hand over the table. He gave it to her easily, palm face-up. 

A frown tugged at his lips. “What’s wrong, Nat?”

She took a breath, closed her eyes, and a raised a hand to her forehead. (Maybe she could tell him?) “I don’t feel real anymore,” she evenly spoke. Her hand came to lightly cover her mouth, and she took a breath through her nose. She opened her eyes and asked softly, “Can we talk about identity?”

“Sure,” he smiled. “What part?” 

“Gender,” she responded, looking away so she wouldn’t have to see his rejection.

“Okay,” he said simply. She turned back to him, he was grinning in a way that made her think that he knew exactly what she meant. She couldn’t help but feel the corners of her mouth moving upwards, like they had a mind of their own. He grinned wider.

“Let’s start with simple things, okay?” he spoke carefully, like he was tip-toeing across a creaky wooden floor. She knew this was bullshit. Clint tip-toed like he did everything else in his life, loudly.

“Okay,” she responded, her voice shaking slightly.

“What’s your name?” he asked quietly.

“Natasha,” she responded. 

“Anything you want to be called more than that?”

“Nat?” 

Why did it come out like a question, she wondered.

“Okay, we’ll use that. Do you feel like you're more feminine or masculine?”

“Neither.”

I’ll be strong if he leaves. I’ll be okay. It won’t hurt me. Nothing can. I’ll be fine, she repeated mentally, like a mantra. 

His face radiated warmth, and he gave her a butterfly kiss on her mouth, a brush of lips against each other. “Maybe you’re agender? Genderless?”

“Can I think about it?”

“For as long as you need to,” he said, and that came out a promise, too. “I’ll love you no matter what.”

“I love you, too, solnyshko.” Her head felt clearer than it had in months. She pulled him into a kiss.

 

A week later, they exited a bathroom in the SHIELD headquarters, wearing a gray binder underneath their sweatshirt. Clint was smiling so fucking hard. 

“I’m agender. They/them pronouns for me, please,” they asked him, but it sounded like a statement.

He gathered them into his arms and spun them around. When he lowered them down, he whispered, “You’re amazing, sweetheart.”

They laughed, and it felt easy. “So are you, idiot.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Leave a comment or a kudos if you enjoyed, please, they warm my soul :)


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